Snapshots
by rebeldesigns
Summary: Where do you go from here, where the only life you know is gone? Fifty snapshots, fifty moments of the lives of the Winchesters, up to and including Season 5.
1. Prompt 35: Shatter

_**Snapshots**_

**Author's Note:** This is just an idea that's been cluttering up the limited space inside my head for the past few weeks, and when I got my new laptop it was the perfect opportunity to get my creative juices flowing. That way, I could perhaps find some creativity left to finish up "Supernatural Meets Sue pernatural" and "Hunter's Moon." What better way to do this than dive headlong into a 50-section feat?

Basically, 'Snapshots' is a personal challenge. Using 50 word prompts, I will attempt (and I repeat, _attempt_… ha) to write 50 one-shots/drabbles focusing on different points in the Winchester brothers' lives. Hence, the title 'Snapshots.' Some will be abstract or poetic. Some will be straightforward. Some might make you laugh, others might make you want to kill me. Some might be award-winning material, while others will be like it came from the business end of a cow. That is for you to decide, my lovely readers.

If you would like to see the complete list of word prompts, visit my profile or my Livejournal, jensensmyluvva.. I challenge others to test themselves in a similar manner. Feel free to use my word prompt list for your own Supernatural (or other) writing, but under the condition that you credit my prompts to 'jensensmyluvva' if you are on LJ or 'Cassie Winchester' on . Please share your stories with me, I love to read oneshots that have my two favorite Supernatural characters.

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**Prompt #35: Shatter**

(Word Count: 577)

Sam Winchester's life had shattered.

Unraveled.

Disintegrated.

It had all been building up. The small, hairline fractures trailing along his battered psyche that left him seemingly whole on the outside, all but broken on the inside. Fragile, but structurally sound.

He couldn't remember when he first started noticing the breaks, the subtle fraying of the threads that held him together, kept him sane. Perhaps it was around the time Dean came back into his life after almost two years of college normalcy, toppling Sam's carefully built house of cards, launching him headlong into the bloody line of work that he had been so desperately trying to avoid. Or maybe it was when Jess died so suddenly, pinned to the ceiling in a fiery blaze of confusion and fear and accusation. Sam's guilty conscience took a brutal blow. Jess was the catalyst, the first domino to pitch forward and tap the rest with its momentum.

John Winchester, the father Sam had loved the most when he hated him. Dead. Another crack on the faulty veneer of Sam's brave façade.

And Dean, who had given his soul for the same reason that Sam had scrambled for the means to save him from the hellfire and brimstone that awaited in the afterlife. Every day felt like additional weight on his shoulders. Every passing second, a wasted one. Every waking moment, a painful one. Every gasping breath, a futile one.

The branching of fractures fanned out in a spider-web, faster and faster, only Sam couldn't stop the leaks this time. His emotions got the better of him.

He fought violently.

He brooded quietly.

But mostly he waited. Waited for the time when Dean would stand up and save himself, even when Sam had promised to do it himself.

That time never came.

Dean.

Dead.

Eyes wide and unseeing. Body lying motionless, bloodied and broken. Life essence pooling a dark, vibrant crimson on the floor, slicking over Sam's trembling hands. Still warm.

And with a sharp gasp of reality, Sam's world finally shattered into a million jagged shards.

Cold.

Numb.

And alone. He couldn't do it on his own. He just… _couldn't._

He wasn't strong like his father or his… brother. He wasn't weak, by any means; he just… couldn't compartmentalize his emotions as well as the rest, refused to tuck them behind a barrier reinforced with years of emotional conditioning. He held his powerful emotions in the palm of his open hands, naked and bare and vulnerable.

And in the moment his entire world fell to pieces, there was no word for the force of emotion he felt. It bubbled forth, overflowing his clutching grip to splash to the floor in angry rivulets.

Pain. Sorrow. Anguish. And a burning, consuming thirst for revenge that could not be sated.

He _had_ to get up. Let go of the dead body, the aching memory of a brother, a comrade in arms, a friend, another half. Wash the blood off his hands, though the strength of it still flowed thick through his veins. Winchester veins.

He might not be able to fix himself. He knew he couldn't weld himself back into the same person he was before. Sam wasn't even sure if there was anything worth salvaging. He felt he had not the strength left in him to mend what needed to be mended.

But he _would_ pick up the pieces. And he sure as hell would try.

**A/N:** Soooo, er… That's my attempt at being deep and all that. Not all my ficlets will be so morose. Some will be wittier, others heartfelt, etcetera and other such whatnot. Please, please take a few seconds out of your time to review and tell me what you think. Feedback of any kind (even flames, if you include enough reason) is very useful to my writing. Was I hot or cold?... tell me!


	2. Prompt 4: Stitches

**Author's Note:** Drabble, using one of the prompts from my Supernatural 50 list called "Snapshots." Written in a countdown to Halloween.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't shoot.

**Rating:** K+

**Word Count:** 96

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**Prompt #4: Stitches**

No matter how many times he does it, it hurts.

It isn't an unbearable hurt. He's been shot, stabbed, sliced, bitten, and beaten. _Those_ were the pains that defined the word "hurt." But _this_, this in and out, push and pull is the kind of sharp, stabbing pain that shreds his inner cheeks as he bites them, leaving him hurting in two places rather than one.

At the same time, in a strange, sick way… there is something cathartic about self-repair. He slaps a bandage on it when he's done.

Six stitches.

A lifetime of scars.


	3. Prompt 46: Understand

**Author's Note:** Drabble, using one of the prompts from my Supernatural 50 list called "Snapshots." Written in a countdown to Halloween. Inspired by Dean's timeless line in Episode 3 of Season 5: "Eat it, _Twilight_."

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't shoot.

**Word Count:** 97

**Rating:** K+

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**Prompt #46: Understand**

"Wait… I don't understand," Dean whined, gripping his head in his hands as if his brain was hurting too much to think coherently.

Sam tossed his brother a bemused look over the top of his laptop.

"He… _sparkles?_" Dean queried, scrunching his nose and tilting his head to the side, utterly bemused by this latest piece of information. "Isn't that a little… counterproductive?"

Sam snorted, shaking his head. He was beginning to regret giving his brother the book to read after all.

"What a crapfest." Dean declared dismissively, shutting the volume and tossing it onto the counter.

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**Postcript:** This is not a jab at _Twilight_. I own several of the books and am likethis with Jacob. This is just how I think Dean would respond to reading it. So, enjoy, Twi-Hards and Twi-Haters alike.


	4. Prompt 16: Candy

**Author's Note:** Oneshot, using one of the prompts from my Supernatural 50 list called "Snapshots." This one started out as a drabble and then morphed into an extended drabble and then finally became this. Written in a countdown to Halloween.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't shoot.

**Rating:** K+

**Word Count:** 1150

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**Prompt #16: Candy**

"You know, when we were little, Halloween was one of my favorite times of the year," Sam commented, cocking the sawed-off and checking the barrel.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Really?" He asked, only half-listening. He was going through a mental checklist as he tucked his Desert Eagle into his waistband. _Silver bullets?_ Check. _Silver knife dipped in wormwood oil?_ Done. _Backup weapons?_ He brushed his fingers contemplatively over the machete, biting his lip. Should he?

Nah. Overkill.

"Yeah," Sam answered, nodding as they shut the Impala's trunk and slowly began their ascent up the hill. "It was the one day of the year that I could pretend all of… _this_ was fictional, just something we dressed up as for a night in October, you know?" He gazed wistfully at the knee-high costumed ghouls and sheeted ghosts running around, laughing and crowing with joy at their sugary plunder.

Dean didn't reply. He eyed the rapidly dying sunset in a mixture of equal parts apprehension and excitement. When the sun set… _It_ rose. And _he_ got to work.

They made their way up the sloping sidewalk towards the house. It stuck out like a Trekkie at a Star Wars convention amidst the bright, cheery homes of the neighborhood surrounding it. It was probably seen as the blight of the community. Indeed, it was the only house that the trick-or-treaters went out of their way to avoid.

_And for good reason_, Sam thought wryly as he hitched his bag higher on his shoulder. _Looks like something out of a horror movie._

The house was decay, pure and simple. Broken, dark windows, collapsed roof, rotting shingles and clapboard, a fissure running along the foundation of the house. And two windows, set deep in the house, looking out through filmy sockets, lifeless and watching.

No wonder the creature loved it.

Sam and Dean finally crested the hill and came to the gates of the house. They shared a look.

Dean was the first to skirt the rusty, lopsided front gates that guarded the entryway, pointedly ignoring the POSTED: DO NOT ENTER sign with the practiced air of one who didn't abide by any normal law. Sam followed, smiling reassuringly to a group of young trick-or-treaters who had stopped dead in their tracks and were staring at him and his brother, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

_It's okay_, Sam wanted to say. _Happy Halloween!_

Sam knew there was nothing really happy about Halloween in the first place. To know the truth? _That_ was the real horror movie.

The porch steps were creaky, predictably so, and the Winchesters treaded their next few steps lightly. The bottom floor windows were boarded up tightly. Sam eyed the front door, contemplating the use of his trusty torque wrench and half-diamond pick. For such a dilapidated affair, the old house sure had a strong lock on the entryway.

Dean smirked and tilted his head to the side. He wrapped his knuckles smartly on the eroded front door.

"Trick or treat!" he singsonged in that way of his, the tone that made Sam either want to bust a gut laughing or smack his brother in the back of the head. "Anyone home?" Dean coaxed, smirk threatening to eat his face as he reveled in how awesome he clearly was.

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean raised his hand to knock again; apparently beating a dead horse was to be added to the long list of Dean's charismatic amenities.

The door opened with a quintessential _creeeeak!_ of groaning wood and rusted hinges… Just the right amounts ominous and hair-raising. Apparently the creature was waiting for them.

Sam and Dean shared a mutual look of, _Okay, creepy…_

"Well, ladies first, Sammy," Dean chivalrously conceded, grabbing the pistol from his waistband and the silver-bladed knife from his inner jacket pocket.

Sam threw Dean a grimace and shouldered his sawed-off. _Another day in the life,_ Sam thought to himself as they entered the house on top of the hill.

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"Hey, nice costume!" a young vampire chirped from somewhere around Sam's elbow.

"Yeah!" A pirate piped up behind Dean. "That blood looks sooo real!" The pirate poked Dean's shredded side and whistled appreciatively.

Dean let out a half-whine, half-chuckle and said hoarsely, "Thanks. Took me all night!" His right eye twitched with pain and he resisted—barely—the impulse to smack the inquisitive child's hand away from his aching torso.

"What _are_ you guys, anyway?" a little girl, decked out in full princess regalia, asked. She narrowed her eyes and frowned, a rather condescending look crossing her youthful features. "You look a little too old to be trick-or-treating."

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but then winced and paled, hands clutching at his side.

Sam interjected. "Thanks, guys, we're just… we're gonna head on home, okay? Long night, you know?" He jostled the duffle bag hanging from his shoulder, careful not to spill its contents. "Lots of candy to take home, right?'

The kids' eyes widened as they saw the size of the "candy bag." Newfound respect in their eyes, they tossed farewells over their shoulder as they ran off into the night.

Dean managed to smile through his pain. "You know, you're kinda right, for once," he said seriously, mouth quirking to one side as he contemplated.

"About what? You're going to have to specify, Dean. I'm right about a lot of things."

"Halloween _was_ kind of fun when we were kids, y'know?" Dean limped over to the Impala and popped the trunk. "The candy, the ghost stories, the slutty cheerleader costumes. Good times."

Sam snorted, dumping his duffel in the trunk. He grabbed the medikit and started to dab iodine experimentally at the bite wound wrapping around his ribcage.

"I could use some chocolate right about now," Dean admitted with a groan, ruefully examining his brutalized tee shirt. "A Kit Kat. Or—oh! What are those things called? The crunchy ones with the caramel and the wafers? _Twix!_ My soul for a Twix bar, man."

Sam shrugged out of his jacket and shirt and slid into a clean v-neck.

"There's a, uh, 24-hour drug store outside of town. We could hit it up, see if they have any leftover Halloween chocolate or candy corn or, uh, whatever," Sam suggested, not quite sure why he was proposing it in the first place. Perhaps it was the look on Dean's face, of earnest longing for a childhood they never received. "You know, for old times' sake, and all that?"

Dean paused in wrapping gauze around his midsection to ponder.

"Throw in a couple of beers and a porno mag, and you've got yourself a deal."

"Happy Halloween, Dean," Sam chuckled, ignoring the painful throbbing in his ribs.

"This ain't Christmas, broheim. Save it for the Hallmark card."

Twin taillights disappeared into the dark.

That Halloween, the neighborhood slept soundly, and the house on the hill plagued them no more.


	5. Prompt 36: Pool

**Author's Note:** Drabble, using one of the prompts from my Supernatural 50 list called "Snapshots."

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't shoot.

**Word Count:** 100

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**Prompt #36: Pool**

He lines up his shot.

It's a beauty, a mathematical marvel of an angle that he knows should, theoretically, seal his nomination to the Eternal Pool Shark Hall of Fame and Awesomeness. He's up $55 tonight… and _will_ be up $90 once he makes this shot.

Funny how there's no doubt in his mind. It never even occurs to him to doubt himself in this.

Dean may be uncertain about many things. His brother's destiny, his own, and the whole end of the frigging world thing.

But right now, the only thing he's certain about is sinking the eight ball.


	6. Prompt 24: Drunk

**Author's Note:** Drabble, using one of the prompts from my Supernatural 50 list called "Snapshots."

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't shoot.

**Word Count:** 109

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**Prompt #24:** Drunk

It's been a long time since he's been good and properly drunk. That's probably why it only took him six shots instead of the usual eight to set him off giggling nonsensically; by shot number seven he was slumped over the bar, humming along to Joan Jett's "I Love Rock n' Roll."

Sam found him in his inebriated state and slung his arm around his shoulders, lifting him bodily from the seat while fishing for a fifty to pay for his tab.

"I never should've left you here by yourself," Sam chuckled to himself.

A little voice in the back of Dean's head added, _No. You really shouldn't have._


End file.
